


In July of This Year

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nightmares, Parentlock, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Frustration, Smut, TFP never happened, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a skosh of mutual pining, i only use events from s4 as they suit my own needs, summer as a theme, summertime fic challenge 2019, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: There is an oft-cited experiment discussed in classrooms and cocktail parties alike, a convenient analogy when one endeavors to make a point about not noticing the obvious until it is inevitable. Simply, if you place a frog on a hot plate, it will jump off immediately, but if you put that frog on a cool plate and turn up the heat slowly,slowly, it will simplyburn.Or: How these two idiots melt together, finally.





	1. Heat

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a collection of connected ficlets for the [Summertime2019 ficlet challenge](https://yaycoffee.tumblr.com/post/185878674303/summertime-2019-fic-challenge). The chapters of this story will be within the same 'verse, though, they might be more like vignettes rather than an actual chaptered story (I don't know what it will really shape up to be yet; I'm flyin' by the seat of my pants here, y'all!). If I have any one-offs in this ficlet challenge, I will post them in a series but not with this story.
> 
> I will update tags and rating as necessary throughout this process, so check back frequently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to youngdarling for looking this over and helping me make it better! You freaking rule!!

John startles awake as a bead of sweat rolls down his neck to further soak his clinging collar. He swats at it like a spider, fingers coming away damp. He’s suffocating--breaths coming quick, shallow, panicked. Nightmare. He shakes his head on a sticky pillow, trying to get some bearings. Shivering, stifling, and soaked through, he sucks warm air through his nose, still frantic, biting back a whimper. 

Though, as he comes more and more awake, he notices where he is, registers the actual room around him--alarm clock glow, baby monitor hum, old pipe clang. He inhales the new paint smell, listens to the quiet of Baker Street at arse-thirty AM through the open window. Then, _then_ he is able to do what he’s practised with Ella: blow out slow, count, breathe in, count, hold, breathe out. After three cycles, he’s feeling much better.

Another careful exhale, and he lifts his head, throws off the duvet, and the sudden cool rush of moving air helps settle him further. It doesn’t last long. There is no breeze coming through the window. No relief at all. He yanks his shirt off by the back of his collar and uses the bottom hem to swipe at his face and chest before tossing it into the hamper in the corner.

He pops quietly into the little next-door room to check on Rosie, to make sure he didn’t wake her. One surprising addition to the renovation of 221 was a reconfiguration of the upstairs space. Sherlock was only halfway through his logical-but-bumbling invitation for them to move in before John agreed. 

Rosie is sleeping, sweaty curls stuck to her forehead, but her breathing is sweet and even. John adjusts the angle of the little fan by her window and steps right back out, not wanting to tempt fate (or rather, a soundly sleeping toddler). 

He moves as quietly as he can manage on his way downstairs, feet automatically landing on the bits that won’t squeak.

It’s slightly cooler in the kitchen than the garret but not by much; the absence of a window here keeps the air stagnant. Not wanting to wake Sherlock, he works only by the cooker hood lamp they always keep on, but the squeak of a cupboard hinge makes him wince when he opens it. Glass down, he fills it from the filtered pitcher they keep in the fridge. His entire body relaxes into the cool slide of water down his throat. He fills the glass again and dampens a clean dishcloth to run over his face and neck. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees the curtain flutter in the lounge, so hoping to actually catch a bit of breeze, he steps toward it. Again, it’s marginally better, but the curtains were only teasing really, now remaining stubbornly still in a room that smells equally of humid air and London smog. Jesus--this heatwave has to end soon. 

“Nightmare?” 

John jumps a little at Sherlock’s quiet voice, unexpected, from the direction of the sofa. He hadn’t noticed him there.

“Yeah,” John replies, letting his shoulders drop as he sighs. “Think it must’ve been triggered by the heat. Don’t even remember what it was about now. Want some water?”

Sherlock rattles a glass with ice in. “Got some already.” John hears the sofa groan as he shifts to standing.

“Think those breathing exercises Ella’s got me doing are actually working a bit,” John says conversationally as he perches on his chair. He doesn’t want to lean his still-sweaty back against the upholstery, so he rests his forearms against his knees, rolling the cool glass against his palms, his wrists. 

Sherlock flops somewhat gracelessly into his own chair opposite. 

Like John, he’s divested himself of his tee shirt, but he’s also rolled his pajama bottoms to his knees. _Good idea, that_ , John thinks as he can actually feel the sweat gathering in his leg hair. Sherlock shifts just so, and the light from the window behind him catches the edges of his curls, the curve of his shoulders, lining him entirely in a moonlit halo, cool blue.

“Working or couldn’t sleep?” John asks.

“Couldn’t sleep. Even London’s criminals are too hot and miserable to do anything interesting.” He sweeps around him in a lazy, dismissive hand gesture. With a groan, he lets his head loll fully back against his chair. "Not sure I blame them."

John huffs a bit at the bad joke, sipping again from his glass. 

Sherlock drains his and stands, chomping on some of the dregs of remaining ice. He points toward the kitchen, silently asking if John wants a refill, but John shakes his head. _I’m good._

As Sherlock passes, he drops a glass-cooled hand to his shoulder, a gesture that would have been absolutely normal had he been fully clothed. But. Sherlock’s thumb absently brushes where it always does, the very edge of the scar usually muffled by vest and shirt and jumper. 

Now, though.

He hears Sherlock’s soft gasp behind him, thumb more intentional as he brushes again, testing the difference in texture, warming quickly to match the temperature of the skin beneath it. 

John hums, unable to stop himself from leaning into that press.

Oh god, how John has _wanted_ … has _stifled_ … has _moved on_ , has _buried_... 

He’s sweating again, feels it prickling along the edge of his hairline. He shuts his eyes--and waits. Breathes in. Counts. Holds. Breathes out slow. The thumb stays, burning, catching slightly against sweat-tacky skin.

Sherlock’s soft breath sounds from just behind him, just over his head, _close_ \--along with the clinking of ice in his glass. It clacks against Sherlock’s teeth, crunches under his molars, and then. Then. 

Just under his ear, along the damp line of his nape, Sherlock blows out carefully--Arctic cool, blissful contrast, relief, comfort; a whisper, a question. “John, I--”

“Yes, Sherlock.” It’s barely a sound. He can only breathe. _Yes_.

And where his breath was, now John feels the warm outer skin of Sherlock’s lips burn just there, beneath his ear, before they slide, giving way to the refreshing cool of the inner slick as John leans in, tilts his head for _more_. Sherlock presses even closer, opens his mouth. Sherlock’s tongue still has a chip of ice in the centre, and holy _god_ , Sherlock’s got it against his carotid, and it tingles like _winter_ along his entire fucking body. He groans.

“Jesus Christ,” John says. “Come _here_ ,” and John turns enough to bury his fingers into Sherlock’s damp curls, nails sliding against a sweaty scalp, and he opens his hot mouth against Sherlock’s, chasing the cool tongue, the drip of melting ice they now share. 


	2. Cocktails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything old is new again. This vignette is set a couple of months before the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also note my tag about events from s4 only being used to serve my own purposes. In this verse, TFP never happened.
> 
> Also, note how TOTALLY AMAZING youngdarling is for cheering me on and looking this over and basically being the best beta that ever betaed :-))))) Any remaining mistakes are due to my unnecessary continued noodling without her consent ;-)
> 
> Also note that I've reduced this story down to 5 chapters. This could change as the month goes on, but I'll be picking and choosing from the prompt list and may/may not actually use all of the prompts.

**Two Months Ago:**

Sherlock retrieves his phone from his pocket at the sound of the text alert, reading as he dodges foot traffic along Baker Street, heavy now in the early evening commute.

_Hey, can you get Rosie from nursery? Gonna be late. I bloody hate hay fever season._

**_Of course. SH_ **

_Ta mate. I’ll pick up some dinner._

This is followed shortly by an animated gif of a finger bursting a snot bubble from a child’s nose, at which, Sherlock chuckles. He will never actually type out L.O.L. He shudders at the very thought. On the pavement, he changes course and begins walking the opposite direction, toward Rosie’s nursery school. 

He has been staying in John’s spare bedroom since a fire at Speedy’s spread quickly to Mrs Hudson’s and his own flat, leaving 221 Baker Street extremely damaged and structurally unsound. The bones are back in place now, and he and Mrs Hudson have been given the all-clear to go in and assess the damage of their things, to decide what is fit to keep and what needs replacing. 

It’s been a tedious and lengthy process, and much more sentimental an exercise than he had anticipated. Though he will be glad to have his home back eventually, he does mourn the loss of _what was_ : memories and moments, triumphs and defeats, his _life_ in those books and trinkets, clothing and furniture. Far too much of this loss has become, in Sherlock’s mind, an overwrought metaphor for the entirety of the past four years, singed and scorched, reduced to ash. He knows ash.

He shakes his head; no sense in getting maudlin now. No point. He has a goddaughter to escort home. 

Though it’s only been a few weeks, he does enjoy living with John again, and Rosie. He never thought he would like this, _the quiet life_ \--child underfoot and living in the suburbs. Well, he _does_ hate the suburbs, but he likes John’s off-tune humming as he puts the coffee on, Rosie’s baby nonsense noises, a house full of life from waking to sleeping. He likes being able to think better, to feel more… _himself_ as he talks through a case, picking through the detritus of his thoughts with John there to conduct the light. It’s less convenient by several miles (literally), but he is already loath to give it up when Baker Street is ready and he and John shall once again be on opposite ends of the city.

At the nursery, he is on the list of approved carers and no longer has to show ID, but he pauses to check in; this sort of thing still feels a bit out of his area. He exchanges pleasantries with the receptionist as succinctly as he can politely manage. That done, he passes neatly taped-up rows of sugar paper crafts and painted egg crates along a corridor that smells of Elmer’s glue and antibacterial cleaner. 

Rosie claps when she sees him, reaching up from her place on the play-carpet where she’d been stacking blocks. She can’t say his name yet, but she tries, getting the “Sh” and the “k” in there somewhere. 

“Hello, Watson. I see you’re busy building your empire. Don’t let me stop you.” He bends to run a hand along her hair, tweaking her ear a bit.

She laughs and knocks over the whole thing with her foot as she shifts to crawling position. 

Sherlock scoops her up and gives the teacher a perfunctory smile as he gathers her things.

John isn’t in yet when they arrive at the house, so Sherlock begins the evening routine as he has observed and participated in throughout his weeks here. He washes Rosie’s hands and prepares her tea, cutting up strawberries and sweet potato and bits of chicken for her. She smashes them into her tray and into her face and into her hair, and Sherlock sits at the table to tell her about the case he’s working, smoothly retrieving her cup every time she drops it to the floor. She enthusiastically interjects with her own thoughts on the matter in between bites of her supper. 

She’s in the middle of a diatribe on what is likely the latest nursery school scandal, or her plans for world domination, sincerely moved by _something_ that requires the banging of her sippy cup against the tray like a judge’s gavel when John lets himself in, arms full with a sack of takeaway in one and work satchel in the other. 

“Da!” Rosie greets. “Da! Da!” 

“Hello, you!” He says, beaming at her as he shuts the door with his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says to Sherlock. 

He speaks as he moves, dropping his satchel in its spot beneath the coat hooks and removing his shoes. “Thought I’d never get out of there today. Awful timing for Dr Lin’s daughter’s wedding. Bloody springtime.” 

In the kitchen, he drops the takeaway on the worktop before crossing over to the sink and washing his hands with the meticulous care of a doctor not keen on sharing the germs from the surgery with his daughter. Once sufficiently scrubbed, he crosses over to drop a kiss onto Rosie’s forehead. 

“Hello there, sweetness!” He says brightly, and at the same time, within the same motion, he squeezes the top of Sherlock’s arm. 

And, _oh_. Sherlock cannot name what is happening inside his chest. 

He observes the delighted look on Rosie’s face, the soft posture of his best friend. He notes the warmth of John’s fingers through the fabric of his shirt, the solid weight of his hand on his arm--and suddenly, he is light-headed, absolutely sure that if he were standing, he would wobble. 

When John straightens, he makes eye-contact with Sherlock, squeezing his arm where his hand had been resting. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

The moment stretches, buzzing like whiskey throughout Sherlock’s entire bloodstream, from belly to brain, knocking away his inhibitions, breaking down his walls. He feels so warm, he could burst. Oh, he is _drunk_ on this (ever the addict).

He blinks, and finds he must clear his voice before actually using it. With a small smile, he manages, “Any time, John.” And he means it to his bones, knows its truth: _Any_ time. _All_ of the time.

Good god, _losing_ this will kill him.

He longs to cover John’s hand with his own, but by the time he’s realised he _could_ , John has moved to retrieve the sippy cup from the floor. As Rosie finishes her tea, John asks about the case, and Sherlock and Rosie tell him all about it.

While John is off bathing Rosie and getting her tucked in for the night, Sherlock has an idea and sends a text before he can overthink it. He is likely setting himself up for monumental rejection, but he finds that he just doesn’t care. The plan could work, and even if not as intended, this plan would only rise property value and increase general practicality. 

**_Should configure upstairs space into two bedrooms. I’ll cover extra costs and speak with builders tomorrow if acceptable. SH_ **

He can practically hear Mrs Hudson’s coo of delight from across the city. He rolls his eyes even as he feels the heat of a blush rush into his cheeks.

**If you’ll be needing two bedrooms, dear.**

She sends about twenty heart-eye emojis along with it.

Sherlock sighs. Best to just step in line; he is already far too much ahead of himself. 

**_Of course. John and Rosie will need separate spaces if ever they stay over. Nothing permanent has been arranged. SH_ **

He hopes she understands. This could all be a terrible idea.

**Of course, dear.**

More heart-eyes. 

He rolls his eyes again, but his cheeks are still warm.

  
**Three Weeks Ago:**

Baker Street is ready. 

John has been by with Rosie throughout the renovation to help decorate the downstairs, to put things right, to build it all back. He has not been upstairs, but not for lack of inquiry. (This must be a promising sign, Sherlock hopes.) 

Sherlock took great care with the upstairs rooms. This nursery does not have horrid mismatched clowns and spiny trees. He has had a garden tea-party mural painted along the wall with plenty of roses (naturally) and delicate floating bees with dotted trails behind, giving them the whimsical suggestion of flight. It is smaller than her room now, but it is sunny in the daytime and cosy in the evenings, warmly lit with lamps and a softly-glowing nightlight. There is a cot and shelves for books and bins for toys and furniture for clothes and all the things Rosie needs, even room to grow.

John’s room is less planned because Sherlock wants John to make these decisions for himself, didn’t want to spoil the surprise with questions. He chose a soft grey paint for the walls, comfortable bed, and a matching dresser and night table set which are handsome without extravagance. Room enough for John to bring his things if he chooses but neutral enough to serve as a generic spare bedroom if...

Sherlock arranges a sitter for Rosie for the evening and invites John for dinner, doing a proper shop at Tesco because he will need bread and tea and milk and possibly even the bottle of whiskey, one way or another.

John won’t be here for hours. 

Sherlock makes oversized ice cubes in the special mould he ordered online, just for this. He picks up their favourite pasta from Angelo’s and keeps it warm in the brand new cooker. He fusses with cushions and straightens wall-hangings. 

There is no dust now, not even any clutter. No post on the pristine mantel. So much looks the same, but it’s not. Oh, it’s _really_ not. 

Sherlock knows the only way is forward. If he’s learnt anything over the past months and years, it is that everything will change. It is what it is. He hopes what it is--is _growth_ , a fresh start in a familiar place. 

He wishes it wasn’t too warm for a fire, which would at the very least, give him something with which to occupy himself. He checks the baby-proofing on the cupboards, runs his finger along the curved edge of the new table. The entire flat smells new, of fresh paint, clean. 

He is so nervous, he might vomit into his brand new toilet. Instead, he sits in his new chair, across from John’s new chair, and he waits. 

He hears the street door downstairs open and shut just as John calls up.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock knows he’s asking, that despite the key he still carries, he doesn’t feel like he can simply come in--which of course, he can.

“Up here,” Sherlock calls back.

John’s steps are light on the stairs. 

He pauses in the doorway, raking his eyes over the entire room before running a hand on the wall next to the sofa. “Still can’t believe you managed to find the same wallpaper,” he says. He walks around the living room, inspecting both new additions and the items salvaged. “Wow, this looks really great. Really good.” 

Sherlock feels at ease for the first time all day. “I couldn’t have managed without your help. Thank you, John.”

John smiles then, a soft thing with large eyes and a small huff of breath from his nose. 

Sherlock cannot help but to return the smile with one of his own. “I’ve got Angelo’s warm in the kitchen. Are you hungry?”

“Not just yet, but I wouldn’t say no to a drink. We should celebrate properly.”

“Indeed.”

John follows him into the kitchen, and they chat about the appliances and when Mrs Hudson will be moving back in from her sister’s. Sherlock feels the weight of his question, unasked, like lead in his pockets. 

He busies himself with crafting something different than their typical two fingers. 

“Oh, getting a bit posh there, are you?” John is teasing a little, but is mostly amused, lines of delight crinkling at his eyes.

“Well,” Sherlock shrugs. “Perhaps a little,” he says, working to keep his voice even, tone light. He places a large square cube of ice in each of their glasses, and he mixes whiskey with bitters and orange, a small spoonful of syrup. He pours an equal measure in each glass, along with one gourmet maraschino cherry. “Old fashioneds. Since as of now, everything old is new again.” He manages a smirk as he hands John his drink.

“And you call _me_ sentimental.” John raises his glass. “Cheers, Sherlock.” His smile could light the room, is as warm as the liquid in his glass.

“Cheers, John.”

Their glasses clink together lightly, and they sip. It is delicious, the perfect balance of sweet and bitter and burn. Sherlock takes another fortifying sip.

“John, I-- Would you like to see the upstairs renovation?”

“Sure,” John replies, already walking through the kitchen hallway door.

They take the stairs together, John just ahead of him.

“Whoa,” John says, the differences already extremely apparent before they’ve even reached the top. “What have you done?” 

“John, I know it’s--” Sherlock can’t find his words, so he changes tack. He steps past John, hand hovering just over his shoulder blade, and opens the farther door, the one to (hopefully) John’s room. 

John’s face slackens, and Sherlock can’t tell if it’s good or bad. Other than one window, the room is obviously entirely changed. Sherlock watches John’s eyes flicker over every surface. 

He clears his throat before speaking. “This is very nice, Sherlock.” There is definitely something of sadness in the small smile he gives.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock steps out, back onto the small landing, fingers hovering over the knob of the second door. 

“I want you to see this room as well. And, before you do... I know that I-- I mean to say--” Again, Sherlock is stumbling over his own words, brain fighting with the pounding of his heart. _Why_ is this so damned difficult? He opens the door a tiny crack.

“John,” he starts again, shaking his head to gather his scattered thoughts. “I cannot fully express to you my gratitude for your hospitality these past weeks, and of course your friendship is singular, and valued, and I-- Rosie is-- I have loved every minute…”

John, whose expression has gone from wistful to fond to something like trepidation, places his hand just under Sherlock’s on the door. He looks at Sherlock, fully in the eyes, and grins a little as he joins Sherlock in pushing the door completely open. John is so close that Sherlock can feel his gasp as much as hear it. 

“Sherlock,” he says. “What--” and his voice is barely a breath. He’s past Sherlock in a beat, lips parted, eyes a bit wet as he touches the railing of the cot, traces a bee trail with his forefinger, runs a thumb along the edge of a lampshade.

“I know we often work late hours, and if you want, if you and Rosie would like to, I mean--there’s room to grow, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to upset--”

“Yes!” John says. 

“What?” Sherlock replies, blinking back his disbelief, clinging to a strengthening thread of hope.

“That’s what you’re asking, right? For us to move here?” 

Sherlock nods, not trusting his voice, fighting the sting behind his own eyes.

John says, and now his smile is wild and bright, “We’re moving back _home_.” He laughs, and Sherlock cannot help but join him, so full of joy and relief, he doesn’t know what to do with it all. John lifts a hand to his arm, squeezing, just like the kitchen. 

Then, John raises the glass still in his other hand, reminding Sherlock of the matching one he holds as well. 

“Everything old is new again,” John says. He squares his shoulders and nods his head, coaxing Sherlock’s glass up with his gaze.

Sherlock meets Johns eyes, raising his glass to touch John’s. 

“To _everything_ , John.”


	3. Holiday (well, not really)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta-ed, so apologies for lingering mistakes and typos. I've no one to blame but myself! :-)
> 
> Also, the prompt got away with me, so this time, it's a _real_ stretch to find it in this one, but really--now that this thing has a sort-of plot and direction, I'm letting it do what it wants (mostly).
> 
> I'm thinking one more chapter? Possibly two. Watch out for future ratings-changes because next chapter will catch us up to the first one, and beyond.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudosed, commented, reblogged, and encouraged. Y'all rule!

It’s still fairly early, but Rosie is down for the night, Sherlock is now back at Baker Street, and John is here, alone. There is some comfort knowing that Baker Street is ready and waiting for them whenever they’re ready. Logically, he knows that it’s just a matter of sorting all the moving house mess over here, but who knows how long that will take? The house feels cold, empty and gaping in a way it hasn’t done in ages. 

The quiet surrounds him, skittering beneath his skin, prickling uncomfortably, reminding him too strongly of all his other first nights in empty-now houses. He taps two fingers against the kitchen worktop and decides on filling the kettle for something to do, distracting himself with a task: best go with decaf this late, one mug from the cupboard, watch the kettle (wait).

It all just seems so loud tonight, the _silence_ , made somehow louder by the metallic hum of the fridge, the monotone ticking of a clock from the other room. His head drops into his hands so he can pinch his eyes between his thumb and forefinger, letting out a quiet groan. _Oh mate_ , he tells himself, _you know exactly why this is bothering you_. 

He scrubs a hand across his face, dimly aware of the rising sound of the water heating in the kettle. Okay, yes--he _knows_ what this is, this old feeling, and yes, when he’s honest with himself, he knows that it’s so much more than he’d _got used_ to Sherlock being around again. He shakes his head to himself, plops a bag into a mug and covers it with boiling water. 

He still won’t say it. He _can’t_ . It would ruin everything. He spent so long pushing this feeling away because what else was he going to do? It’s just--it was much easier to keep it buried before Sherlock came back to share his day-to-day again, was once more in his space, breathing his air, filling his thoughts, his dr-- No. It’s better, yeah, to let a good thing stay a good thing-- a _really_ good thing. Best friends.

Apparently he needs more of a distraction than a cup of tea is able to provide, so he slides his phone closer and presses the home button, lighting it up. He doesn’t even know what he wants to do other than ignore the quiet, reset his thoughts, just until he’s tired enough to sleep. He checks tomorrow’s weather, his email, news app, Twitter.

He moves into the lounge, opening up Facebook to kill just a little more time as he finishes his tea. Stamford’s family are on holiday in Spain, _loving this sun_ , and Dr Lin is posting official wedding photos. Harry has posted her third inspirational quote of the day, and he unfollows an old high school mate who posted a racist cartoon. He scrolls and scrolls until a posting from a former coworker selling a bedstead for fifty quid makes him pause. Now, that’s an idea. 

He looks up from his phone and visually takes stock of the items in his lounge, one-by-one, and it strikes him: the lot of it are things he either has no feelings about whatsoever or actively hates. He sips from a mug that Mary picked out for their wedding registry and sits on the sofa he bought while Sherlock was dead. He can’t help but huff out the smallest chuckle at his own mad realisation. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. 

What is he waiting for?

He stands and turns, and he takes a photo of his sofa. 

It’s shit. The flash has made a bright blank spot in the middle of the photo, and the place where his bum had just been is unattractively sunken and wrinkled. He can do better than that, so he makes a proper job of it. He switches on the overhead light, cancels the flash, smooths fabric, pats cushions, and snaps a new photo. This one is much better. 

The promise of moving forward _now_ gives his brain something productive to focus on. He doesn’t have to keep what he doesn’t want. He doesn’t have to stay where he doesn’t want to be. He takes photos of the coffee table, end tables, lamps, armchairs--all of it. Each goes up on his Facebook page with low-ball pricing (OBO). 

By the time he’s finished, it’s late, and he can hardly keep his eyes open. He dumps his half-drunk cup of tea down the drain before climbing into bed feeling knackered, but happy. 

The next morning is Saturday, so no work. Even still, John wakes early and manages to get the coffee on before Rosie starts fussing, needing a change and some breakfast. It is in the short lulls in kiddie shows and playtime that he finds and contacts an estate agent to put the house on the market, and during morning nap time, he gets photos of almost everything else taken and posted to Facebook, arranges times for pick up for the items he’d put up last night. 

_How is next Saturday?_

****

**_For what? SH_ **

_Moving house. Will you be ready for us that soon?_

There is a long pause, and John watches the flashing ellipses as they come and fade with Sherlock's typing-without-sending. Sherlock starts and stops typing several times. John stretches out his cramped hand, growing a bit nervous as he waits, hoping he hasn't overstepped.

**_Saturday is fine. SH_ **

He releases a breath, and he is practically vibrating when he rings the surgery’s office manager to arrange for a week’s holiday. John knows it will take much longer than that to handle everything with the house completely, but that’s fine. He can absolutely get what he and Rosie will need at Baker Street sorted by then. He books a man with a van for the first available appointment on Saturday morning. 

Surprisingly, Sherlock offers to help with packing (likely at Mrs Hudson’s urging), but John declines; this house business feels like something he has to do on his own. And it is cathartic in a way, all the sorting and binning and packing and cleaning. He occupies himself with going through wardrobes and cupboards and drawers, creating piles: sell-donate-move. The move pile is always small, easily fitted into a neatly-labeled box or two. He has a couple of Facebook friends over each day to take a chair here, an end table there, and slowly but steadily, those things are gone, leaving more and more blank space, bare walls and empty corners. 

In the bedrooms, he packs up everything except for what he and Rosie need to get them through Saturday. He’d got rid of his and Mary’s shared bedding ages ago when one morning, hungover and sick and angry and grieving, he’d gathered the lot and stuffed it all into a black bin bag. He’d slept under a too-small blanket on the sofa for half a week while he waited for new things from Amazon. 

Even so, he sees this move as a new start, a happier one to be sure, so without the dramatics of last time, he spends Thursday afternoon at the shops. Sherlock offered to watch Rosie during the day, so it feels something of a luxury to be out without a pushchair, trying to keep a two-year-old’s hands away from the breakables. Slowly, he walks the aisles and displays, carefully touching fabrics and evaluating prints, looking for what _he wants_ to go with the handsome greys and dark woods in his new bedroom. 

After he’s made his choices and squishes several puffy bags of bedding and pillows in the boot, he steers toward Baker Street rather than the house. It’ll be time to pick up Rosie soon anyway, and if he can drop this stuff off now, it will be a few less things to pack for the movers.

He lets himself in, but before he can call up, Sherlock meets him on the landing with a finger to his lips.

“Rosie’s napping,” he says softly. He meets John halfway and takes one of the bags before turning right back up the stairs. John follows him up the further flight of stairs to his and Rosie’s floor, easier now that his load is lighter. 

Sherlock keeps his voice low as he places the bag in the corner. “You got new things.” 

John nods. “Well deduced,” John says, tipping it all out, pulling bedding from its packaging. He wants to see if his mind’s eye was working properly in the shop. “What are you, some kind of detective?” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, but he’s smiling as he reaches to help John with a corner. 

“But yeah.” John shrugs. “New start and all that,” and together, they work at getting the duvet into its cover. 

Once it’s all in place, Sherlock nods. “It’s a nice choice, John.” 

“Mmm,” John hums; he thinks so, too. To be honest, it all looks even better than he thought it would, like it was made for this space: rustic blue ticking stripes on one side, coordinating tartan on the other. It smells strongly _new_ , of fresh dye, but John knows that will fade quickly now it’s all out in the open. 

“Rosie’s napping, you said. Is she--?” He points in the direction of the nursery.

Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. “Come see.”

They move together and quietly next door. John is once again blown away by the delicate beauty of this space, by the careful attention Sherlock took here, right down to the soft music playing from a discreet speaker he’s tucked away somewhere. John walks over to watch the rise and fall of his daughter’s chest, to listen to the sweet sound of her breathing, and after a moment, Sherlock comes to stand next to him. 

John presses in, just a bit, butting his shoulder against Sherlock’s arm. “This is-- this is lovely, Sherlock,” he says, keeping his voice at the quietest whisper he can manage. 

Sherlock’s fingers flex, warm and fluttering at the back of John’s hand for just a second. 

“Look at her,” John says, clearing his throat a bit. “She already knows she’s home.” He wraps a hand lightly around the cot rail, tracing the smooth grain of the wood beneath his fingers. 

“You both are, you know,” Sherlock says, so quietly, and then he turns, facing John. “Home.” His face does something complicated and raw, making John shiver with gooseflesh rising up on his arms, almost electric as it reaches his scalp. If John keeps looking at Sherlock’s face looking like that, it will burn him blind; he can’t make himself turn away.

“John.” It’s barely even a whisper. Sherlock’s face won’t stop doing that thing, and John’s heart clenches inside his chest.

John doesn’t really know _exactly_ the conversation they are having right now, but he does know that it is important, that it might take time to find the words they’re searching for. He also knows that he cannot leave here in an hour to go back to his nearly empty, awful house for even two more nights.

“Yeah, I-- Look, we’ll wake her if we keep standing here. Come on.”

John leads them just to the landing, and Sherlock carefully shuts Rosie’s door. Neither of them move. 

“How much of an imposition would it be if--” He shakes his head. It feels like the next thing he says should matter, and he doesn’t want to bungle it. He knows what he wants to do. He forces his head up, back to that blazing face, and says, “If I wash those sheets now, they’ll be ready for tonight. That okay?”

Sherlock nods. “Of course it’s okay.” Something softens then, tension breaking, and both of them exhale.

“Good.” John clears his throat a bit. “Yeah, good,” and then it is so easy to run a hand along Sherlock’s back as he passes him on the way to his bedroom, to call softly as he pulls sheets from their packaging, shaking them from the cardboard that kept them so tightly in place, “You have anything in for dinner, or should we call for takeaway somewhere?”

“I did the shopping yesterday,” Sherlock says, hovering in John’s doorway. “Fish fingers and yoghurt for Watson, but I’ve got some lamb or ingredients for spag bol for us. Which would you rather?” 

John smiles, huffing against the stiff, chemical-smelling bundle of new fabric he’s gathered in his hands. This is a variant of a conversation they’ve had dozens of times over the past weeks, so often in fact, that it has long since stopped surprising him when Sherlock deigns to shop or cook or eat. Things this time are definitely not the same as at the Baker Street of the past, but this is where they are now. It’s taken quite a journey to get here, to get home. 

“Lamb,” John answers.

Later, in the kitchen, the sheets tumble in the washer while Sherlock lays fish fingers on a baking tray. John changes a newly-roused Rosie before bringing her down for tea. They talk about the case and the idiocy of the new forensics intern at the Met and get in each other’s way in all the very best ways as John peels potatoes and Sherlock wipes pink yoghurt from Rosie’s face. They even take advantage of the long summer evening with an after-dinner walk in the park. By the time Rosie is in bed for the night, John is able to make his own, sheets now soft and pleasantly fragrant from the wash.

The sun is just done setting when John makes his way back to the lounge with a cup of tea, listening to street noise through the open window, to the clicking of Sherlock’s typing as he writes up some lab results, pausing often to explain their implications on a case they’re working with Lestrade. John sits, shifting a bit in his new chair, knowing it will take a little time for it to fit him exactly as it’s meant to, but it will. He knows it will.


	4. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change and tag updates! Herein lies some smut. 
> 
> This chapter is unbeta-ed, so apologies for lingering mistakes and typos. I've no one to blame but myself! :-)
> 
> No one prompt from the list is the inspiration here, but SEVERAL of them are featured.
> 
> This story is now COMPLETE! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudosed, commented, reblogged, and encouraged. Y'all rule!

There is an oft-cited experiment discussed in classrooms and cocktail parties alike, a convenient analogy when one endeavors to make a point about not noticing the obvious until it is inevitable. Simply, if you place a frog on a hot plate, it will jump off immediately, but if you put that frog on a cool plate and turn up the heat slowly, _slowly_ , it will simply _burn_.

** One Week Ago: **

Sherlock frowns at the evidence before him on the microscope slide. This is not what he’d planned for. He sighs, rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbow. He’ll need to think, to work out the best way to proceed from here.

“Anything yet?” John asks, hand on his shoulder as he leans in to peer at the slide himself. He stands straight again, widely blinking up at Sherlock, clearly not appreciating the significance of the data he just witnessed with his own eyes. Plain as day, really. Obvious. 

Sherlock hums, making a quick note in his chart for posterity. “It looks like Thompson’s alibi will hold after all,” he explains, laying out the connections in an easy-to-follow line.

John squeezes his shoulder before moving toward the fridge as Sherlock continues to speak, interjecting only once Sherlock is finished. “Back to square one then. Fan _tastic_. Lunch?” 

“Why not,” Sherlock says with a sigh, stretching a bit to pop his vertebrae back into their proper places after spending too long stooped over. 

John is already pulling items from the fridge: cheddar, pickle, tomato. Sherlock crosses the space for the breadbox, then retrieves plates and crisps from the cupboards. He lights his hand at the small of John’s back for a moment as he sets the plates before him, reaching around him to grab the tomato. He slices it as John begins the rest of the assembly.

“We’ll need to get to the neighbor interview by two if we also need to talk to the employer again and be on time for Rosie,” John says as Sherlock clears two spots at the table of his lab notebook and the contents of the case file. He stacks it all roughly and shoves it to a corner. He’ll need it again later to add results due in from Met forensics.

“Tea?” John asks. 

“Hm, no. Lemonade,” Sherlock says. Though the breeze through the living room windows is nice, the kitchen is rather too warm for hot drinks at the minute. John nods. “I’ll get it,” and he does just that as John takes their plates to the table.

While they eat, John asks good questions about the crime scene from yesterday, helping Sherlock shift the data in his mind into three promising new ideas. They’ll need to make an extra stop to re-interview the mistress. He needs to observe both her behavioral response to this new avenue of inquiry as well as her home, particularly the bathroom. He needs a look into her medicine cabinet.

\-----

Nearly two days later, John holds his gun steady, aimed directly at the neighbour’s chest as Sherlock gets him zip-tied for Lestrade. He wipes his cheek against his shoulder, his sweaty fingers slipping a bit against the plastic, but everything is secured in short order. The chase wasn’t a particularly difficult one (nor was the case for that matter, in the end—a six), but it is warm today, verging on uncomfortable under the midday sun. Sherlock is itching to be back in the cool dark of Baker Street with a soft breeze and a dry shirt.

John’s smile quirks, chin lifting at Lestrade’s team coming round the corner, just now catching them up. He smoothly stows his gun behind him before they arrive, shifting then just so his head blocks the sun. It momentarily gives him the appearance of being lit from behind, a golden halo. The breeze that cools their faces carries the scent of John’s aftershave and fresh sweat with it, and Sherlock breathes it in on instinct, hoarding it at the bottom of his lungs like cigarette smoke.

They turn over both the criminal and all relevant evidence to Lestrade. Though tedious and unnecessary (given how everything they know is _right there in the evidence_ ), they stay on the scene to give brief statements to a uniformed officer while she scribbles frantically on a clipboard with the appropriate form. 

In the taxi, John’s knee presses into his, and they ride in easy silence back home. John’s got a dark patch of sweat along his shirt collar that curves down his chest, the skin above it still gleaming with moisture. Sherlock wonders what it would feel like against the pad of his thumb, how it would taste. He allows his eyes to linger, easy now, safe, because John’s eyes are closed against the breeze coming in through the taxi window. 

Sherlock’s skin itches, the cooling sweat along his arms an odd contrast to the heat gathering in his gut. Patches of his shirt stick to his back, and perhaps he should lean away, let the air circulate around him, but he hasn’t the will to make himself move. Right here, he and John are physically _connected_ in at least this small way, and so Sherlock basks in it, soaking it in while he is able. 

When the taxi stops outside the flat, John squeezes his knee quickly before exiting, and Sherlock pays the fare before following inside.

\-----

Two more days, and they are officially suffering through the worst heatwave London has seen in a decade. The breeze has entirely gone, and the flat is boiling. Sherlock checks his phone; according to reports, the weather should break with a line of storms from the north in a day or two. He scowls at the map, longing to shift the rain hovering over York down to London right _now_. 

Rosie has been crying for the better part of an hour, refusing to be put down for a long-overdue nap. 

John fills her sippy cup with cold water, but she does little more with it than moan pitifully around the mouthpiece. John’s frustrated exhaustion is written all over his face. It is streaked with lines of sweat; blotchy patches mid cheek and along his neck nearly match the maroon of his tee shirt. Sherlock knows that he doesn’t look any better himself; his hair is larger every time he catches his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. It’s nearly standing on end at the sides, fuzzy and ridiculous and completely out of his own control.

“Come now, Watson,” Sherlock says, working at keeping the calm in his voice, picking her up as he stands at the open window. Her body is hot and clammy against his own. “You’ll only dehydrate yourself further with all of this,” and he brushes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, cleans the wet around her tiny nose. She sniffles and takes a large pull from her drink. “That’s it,” he encourages, wiping his hand against his trouser leg. 

The reprieve is short-lived. She is wailing again in seconds.

“Maybe a walk, yeah,” John says around a frustrated sigh. “Park?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

They wrangle a squirmy, protesting Rosie into her pushchair, sun lotion applied, hat on, and finally out to the pavement. She quiets the very moment they start moving, settled by getting a bit of breeze against her sweaty face. They do their best along the crowded footpaths, moving through and with the throngs of other people out here for the same reason that they are. 

John finds a kiosk selling ice lollies, and they make their way to a bench that’s shaded well enough to stop comfortably. John sits, handing Sherlock Magnum bars for them while offering a unicorn-shaped lolly to Rosie, all bright pink and purple and blue. Her face lights up instantly as she grasps it tightly by the top rather than the handle. When John tries to correct her grip, the heavy thing wobbles precariously, nearly toppling to the ground, horn first.

John helps Rosie hold it upright as she gnaws away, squealing in delight as it melts, dripping down her chin, soaking the front of her shirt. “Yummm,” John singsongs at her, gooey syrup now trailing down the wooden handle to his hand, over his entire arm. “Tastes of magic and fairy sparkles, yeah.”

“Ya! Ahm!” Rosie coos. “Ahm, ahm, ahm!”

Sherlock laughs at them as he opens a Magnum bar and holds it out for John. He reaches for it, but stills, turning his hand a couple of times, helpless against the dripping mess from Rosie’s lolly. Laughing lightly at his predicament, he just leans in and _bites_. 

His lips wrap around the chocolate and then purse as he lifts up, cheeks hollowing with the effort, and Sherlock cannot tear his eyes away. This is indecent. This is _fascinating_. John groans in pleasure as his jaw works around his mouthful. He looks up at Sherlock, and at first, his eyes are bright, still brimming with the playful mischief he’d had trained on Rosie and her growing puddle of pastel goo, but they darken quickly into something else, something new. Sherlock’s breath catches. John’s expression is not unlike the one he has whilst steadying his gun. Deliberate. _Dangerous_. He keeps eyes locked on Sherlock’s as he uses his tongue to catch a stray bit of chocolate that has clung to his top lip.

“That is _really_ nice,” John rumbles, eyes dark and smiling, mischief back again but in a way now that reminds Sherlock of curling smoke. Heedless of his dripping, rainbow-coloured hand, John reaches out and pulls at Sherlock’s wrist, guiding the ice cream back to his lips for another bite, this time with eyes on Sherlock’s eyes as he does so; lips and _lips_ and jaw and _tongue_. Sherlock can hardly breathe.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is a warning, a plea, a breathy growl, and he knows he should temper this sort of thing, maintain the status quo they’ve been so careful at keeping, but—

“Here,” John says, low and private, and directly into his ear. “It’s melting,” and his sticky fingers push the Magnum towards Sherlock’s own mouth, steady, and Sherlock is too warm to think, so he just _does_. 

He dips down, pushing his tongue slowly between the shell edges, down into the soft cream it holds. Eyes fixed on John’s, he scoops it up into his mouth, letting his lower lip rest against the hollowed out chocolate before carefully bringing it up to meet his top one. He guides the chocolate into his mouth with his tongue, rolling it to coat everywhere, rich and sweet. 

John shifts a bit on the bench, clears his throat, and the exhale from his lips is a sultry summer breeze against Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock turns his head, chasing it, leaning in just that much closer, and that humid warmth is now as present on his lips as the sweet cream he can taste there even still. His mouth opens without him telling it to; his eyes fall shut.

There is a soft _splat_ nearby, and Rosie begins to cry.

“Oh,” John says, leaning away. “Oh, no. We’ve got a unicorn down over here.” And sure enough, the half-eaten lolly has slid completely down to the pavement. Rosie’s world has ended. 

“It’s all right, sweetness,” John tells her, and he wheels the pushchair away enough to keep her foot from trailing in the mess, pulling wet wipes from the pushchair pocket to do the best he can with them. “I think it’s best we head back home, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, but he holds John’s gaze enough to acknowledge what just happened. John doesn’t look away.

\-----

The following day is no better, and Baker Street feels even more like a sauna than ever. John is working a shift at the surgery, so Sherlock takes Rosie to the cinema in the afternoon for the air con. It’s _dreadful_ , crowded to the brim with cranky children and wits-end parents looking to pass the time somewhere cool. Sherlock himself is enduring _singing cartoon animals_ for this two-hour respite from the unrelenting heat. 

Despite being cool for the first time in a week, Rosie fusses and squirms almost constantly. She hasn’t slept well or long enough for days. She very much does and then extremely does _not_ want her snack or her drink. She refuses to stay seated for more than three minutes at a time. Sherlock walks her up and down the main aisle, letting her slowly navigate the stairs on clumsy legs, and then he walks them to the lobby as she _wails_ over the frustration of not having any more stairs left once they’ve reached the bottom. Then, it’s back to the lobby again at her vociferous indignation at having to climb the stairs to get back to their seats. She won’t be diverted with any of the toys from her bag. She won’t shut her eyes in the dark and let herself rest.

Sherlock can relate. His entire body thrums with discontent. He is edgy with exhaustion and so _frustrated_ that he feels like a walking raw nerve. Baker Street is an unremitting hot box of sweat and heat, steadily rising, and when Rosie can’t rest, neither he nor John can find any relief either. He could use a case, a distraction, but while heatwaves like this do correlate with rises in petty crime, the complex criminal tends to opt out. Anything more interesting than a bar fight or a B&E is simply too much effort for London’s underbelly in this weather. 

By the film’s end, it’s close enough to her regular nap time that Rosie does doze a bit, and Sherlock hopes her routine is restored well enough to allow her to sleep through tonight. 

John returns that evening with a small fan under his arm from the shops. A drop of sweat falls off the tip of his nose to the coffee table as he bends to set it down. His work shirt is soaked through under the arms and along the centre of his back. 

“Was hoping to get one for each of us, but this was the last they had,” he says, heading directly to the kitchen for a cold glass of water, stripping down to his vest as he goes. 

They eat sandwiches on the sofa, chewing quietly, both of them too zapped to even carry a conversation. They share the welcome breeze of the fan as the evening passes; it stirs the stagnant air enough to breathe a little easier. Rosie sacks out directly in front of it just after her bath.

John takes the fan to the nursery when he goes to put Rosie down, and Sherlock misses it immediately, once more at the mercy of the flat’s consuming, stagnant heat. 

Grimy and exhausted, he decides a cool shower might help, so he stands and drags himself to the bathroom. His clothes peel away from his skin like a wetsuit, damp and clinging, dropping inside out to the floor as Sherlock turns only one tap. Under the spray, he takes his time, savouring the cool against his heated skin: armpits, wrists, groin. The suds that slide down his body take the tacky layer of salt and sebum down the drain, and for at least a moment, Sherlock feels clean. 

Stepping out, he doesn’t bother with a towel. Naked and dripping, he passes through the door to his bedroom and drops himself face-up atop the duvet. His wet hair helps to keep his head cool, temperature regulated, and he settles, listening absently to John’s footsteps on his ceiling shifting from one side to the other and back again. He loves it; he loves having John here, moving above him, about him in this space. His eyelids feel heavy, so he lets them drift shut for just a little while.

He opens them when John switches on the bathroom light to shuffle through his evening routine. Sherlock turns his head on his pillow, blinking slowly at the en suite door. He watches John strip himself of his clothes, an indistinct shadow through textured glass. 

“She’s sleeping,” John says from his side, and there is no small amount of relief in his tone. “Properly zonked this time I think. I hope, Jesus.”

“Good,” Sherlock replies from his bed. 

“I think the fan helps.”

Sherlock hums in agreement as John starts the water, surrendering to his tired body as it sinks into the mattress. He hasn’t been this comfortable in days. His eyes drift shut once more to the sounds of the spray against tile and the occasional splash or clunk of a plastic bottle, to the homey scent of John’s soap drifting beneath the door. He opens them again when the water shuts off, and he turns his damp head to watch that indistinct John shadow put on his bathrobe.

The shadow gets closer to the glass, and John taps it lightly with two fingers but doesn’t open the door. 

“Hey,” he says. “I’m calling it an early night; get some sleep while Her Nibs allows it. I’m bloody knackered.”

“Same.”

“Yeah, I’ll get the lights and things then. Night.”

“Good night.”

Sherlock listens again to John’s footsteps, mentally tracking them as he turns off lights and makes his way back up the stairs. His eyes shut once more, and then he, like Rosie, sleeps.

But for the soft light from his bedside lamp, it’s fully dark and quiet when he opens his eyes later that night. His hair is now dry except for where new sweat has soaked the curls at his nape. He rolls a bit, groaning at the scratch of the duvet under his shoulders and backside where it has gone tacky and uncomfortable. He tries to just ignore it, to sleep again, but he can’t. He desperately needs both a trip to the loo and some water, so he sits up with an exhausted sigh. 

John has always been particular about him keeping some degree of modesty when in the common areas of the flat ( _for God’s sake_ ), so Sherlock complies by rote. He finds his lightest weight pyjama bottoms in the dresser and puts them on, already hating every place they are in contact with his skin. He rolls them to his knees. He cannot abide the thought of a tee shirt _touching him_ , so he leaves it.

Once his bladder is empty, he heads to the kitchen for water (vicious circle), filling his glass entirely with ice first. He runs a cube along the insides of his wrists before sliding it against his nape and the pulse points under his ears; it drips blissfully cold down his back and chest as it melts. 

The open windows in the living room are fully useless, but he stands at them for a moment anyway, eager for any sort of movement, listening carefully, hopefully, for the sounds of the storm forecasted to put an end to this misery. When this proves entirely futile, it’s to the sofa to see if he can at least find a cool spot in his Mind Palace. It helps a little.

He’s swinging lazily in the garden hammock, re-reading a particularly insightful article on blood spatter when he is brought back to his Baker Street sofa by the loud squeak of a kitchen cupboard. Sherlock can hear John working through his breathing exercises and feels the corners of his own mouth turn down. He’s woken from a nightmare.

He listens to John pouring water and shuffling about the kitchen, watches silently as John retraces Sherlock’s own route from earlier, trying to coax in any sort of relief from outside, and falling short. He is shirtless, and even despite the dim, Sherlock can easily see the large scar covering his shoulder. Its texture dips and rises in the available moonlight, silver and intricate.

“Nightmare?” Sherlock asks softly, breaking the silence. He did try to keep his voice quiet, but John startles anyway. 

Sherlock grimaces into the dark as he shifts, back entirely stuck to the leather of the sofa. He moves to his chair, conversing lightly with John about the effectiveness of his therapy and bemoaning the heatwave and its corresponding lack of interesting crime to solve.

In a lull, John rolls his glass against his wrists. He sighs with pleasure, eyes falling shut, lips parting, face falling slack. All of the moisture in Sherlock’s mouth evaporates. 

He drinks from his glass, draining the water, greedily opening his mouth for ice, anything to keep himself from talking until he feels he can trust his voice at all. When the water is gone, he needs more (god, he needs _more_ ). He starts for the kitchen, dropping his hand on John’s shoulder, a benign gesture they have shared hundreds of times through the years. 

What Sherlock did not account for was the effect of the _heat_ , of John’s bare skin against his bare skin, hot under his palm. He did not expect the smooth surface of the scar ridge to fall directly in the centre of his thumb pad, enabling him to feel it in tandem with the rougher skin below. He cannot contain his gasp. He cannot pull away.

He did not account for the small, needy sound John makes as he presses even more fully into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock doesn’t stop to consider what he does next. There have been too many moments like this, too many almosts, too many interruptions, too many unsaid words, too many wasted opportunities. He can’t _not know_ anymore, so he tips some ice into his mouth, crushing it to increase its surface area. And then, he bends down close, inhaling John at his nape, and blows—a cool stream of air, just there, where the sweat has spiked the edges of John’s hairline. He knows it will feel good; he knows this is not normal. _This_ is a line they have not crossed. 

His own body shivers at the gooseflesh rising on the back of John’s neck. He wants that texture under his tongue. He cannot bear it. 

“John, I--” Sherlock’s voice is hardly more than breath, lips just under John’s ear, so close, swaying closer; he can almost taste. Green soap. Clean sweat. He must _know_. 

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock,” John breathes, voice raw, shaky.

Sherlock kneels, and he presses in just that much more, letting his lips _slide_ against that fragrant spot, and it is astounding. He opens his mouth for even more of it, letting his tongue press, letting the ice melt, to drip along the seam of his lips and John’s skin. It is headier than chocolate, richer than cream. 

John’s pulse jumps against his tongue, matching the heartbeat in his own ears, the thrumming in his fingertips. The vibrations of John’s groan reverberate along Sherlock’s lips, zinging their way down to his chest, to his gut, to his _sex_.

“Jesus Christ,” John says. “Come _here_ ,” and John turns fully toward him, pressing their lips together, fingers threading through his hair, setting sparks along his scalp where blunt fingernails scratch. 

Sherlock is combusting. The ice from his own tongue melts on John’s, and now it’s Sherlock’s soft moan filling John’s mouth. Sherlock is powerless against the overflowing _everything_ rising up, billowing plumes that fill his heart, his head, his body. It’s electric, it’s devastating, it’s _elemental_.

It’s John’s lips, wrapped so softly around his top lip, gentle, and then it’s his tongue tip flickering against Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. It’s John’s breath in his mouth. It’s the glide of John’s tongue along the slick inner skin of his upper lip, down with a flick against the bottom one. It’s the seal of their lips, the slide, the suck. It’s John’s tongue against his own, dipping in deep, licking, licking, licking to match the rising and falling of Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock moans, thunder in his belly, and drags John up with him as he stands, hands sliding along the back of John’s sweaty arms, fingernails gathering sweat along the small of his back, and what he needs more than anything right now is to press his chest to John’s, bite his earlobe, and feel the exact contour of his gluteal muscle against his hand. 

They gasp in unison. John is _hard_ against him, hips rolling in time with his curling tongue. John breathes open mouthed, lips against his cheek, and Sherlock’s bottom teeth scrape the underside of John’s chin. 

John growls and walks him, nodding, nodding (they are both nodding), kissing with lips against lips and lips against jaw and lips against neck-- to his bedroom.

John shuts the door softly, pausing for a moment to check the baby monitor on the dresser. Sherlock watches his back rise and fall with his breath, the small movements of muscle shifting beneath his skin. When John turns back around, his eyes are dark, but open. _Open_. 

“I,” John says, moving close, voice low and rough, hand threading in the hair above Sherlock’s ear, thumb rubbing circles against his sweaty temple. “Have wanted you.” His breath shakes as he exhales through his nose, inhales deep, steps in close. His forehead drops against the the centre of Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock can only hold on, gliding his sweat slick hand to the back of John’s arm, cradling his nape with the other. John hums, head rocking slowly there before he looks back to Sherlock’s eyes. “For _so_ damn long, Sherlock.” 

“John,” Sherlock says. It sounds like begging. It sounds like sorry. It sounds like want. It sounds like love.

John’s lips press to the small bullet scar over Sherlock’s heart, hands slipping to his back, running along the highest ridge there, tracing the finer lines, up and down, so tender Sherlock doesn’t know what to _do_ with what he is feeling. They both do _know_. Sacrifice. Pain. Redemption. Sherlock’s breath is coming with gale force, in and out, a small whimper as his mouth finds John’s shoulder, lips in an open press. 

“ _John_ ,” he says again, voice raw, desperate. He runs the tip of his nose back and forth, breathing, tasting, higher and higher from shoulder to neck to cheek, and John kisses him then, guiding them until the backs of Sherlock’s legs meet the bed. They fall together.

“Always,” Sherlock breathes, rolling on top. He twines their legs together, kisses John’s mouth, sucks John’s chin. He aligns their hips, fingers sliding against John’s cheek, rolls of wet trailing down both of their faces. His eyes sting; it’s not only sweat. “ _Forever_ ,” he says, voice breaking, eyes on John’s as he slides his desperate want slowly against John through their pyjamas.

“Fuck. Sherlock.” John’s leg wraps around Sherlock’s arse, crushing them together. The pressure is incredible. “ _Yes_ ,” John hisses, bucking, but when he says, “ _Forever_ ,” it rumbles.

John leans up and seals his mouth to Sherlock’s, tongue dipping deep, pulling at Sherlock’s to guide it into his own mouth. His hands sweep Sherlock’s back, tracing the ridge of his shoulder blades as they move. And, they move. 

Sherlock tastes salt, following the line of John’s collarbone with his tongue, lipping him where it juts. He presses fingers along John’s ribs, thumb pads into nipples, and he slides, sweeping hands down to John’s waistband and back up with lips now around a hardened nipple. John groans, pressing into whatever part of Sherlock he can. Sherlock slides his hand down again, dipping just below the elastic, the texture of coarse hair under his fingers, first against the pads, then back again with knuckles. He purposefully avoids John’s penis as he traces the elastic again, drawing chemical equations with his tongue over John’s sternum.

“Sherlock, please,” John says, and he’s writhing, the head of his penis dripping and flushed and so hard it’s peeking out now from John’s waistband. 

Sherlock wants to taste it. He wants to dip in to it like cream. He runs his knuckles along John’s waist again, teasing at the elastic. “Have you ever? With a man?”

“No,” John says, and Sherlock meets his eyes more fully, stops playing. 

He leans down and kisses John with all the tenderness he can. His lips are still touching John’s when he asks, “What do you want?” It’s a whisper. 

“Anything,” John says, and his face is so open, so lovely, sweat rolling from hairline down his jaw. “Everything. I’m yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles against his mouth, nips his bottom lip, hooks his thumb under the elastic—and slides John’s pyjama bottoms off. John’s head arches back on the pillow.

John’s penis is large and pink and extremely hard. Sherlock’s mouth waters. 

“You are gorgeous,” he says ( _mine_ , he thinks), hands brushing lightly over flanks and thigh, stroking up and back as he spreads John’s legs, relaxed bend to the knees falling outward as he settles between them. His thumbs trace the crease where John’s arse curves into his thigh, sweep over his perineum. He feathers a trail of chaste kisses from inner knee to the soft skin high on John’s inner thigh before moving up the other leg in a mirrored path. He dips down, lowering himself slowly, and places his tongue against the slit, tasting, curling the leaking fluid into his mouth. He presses his lips into an open mouthed kiss there, and he takes a moment to suckle, thumbs tracing light circles at the base of John’s penis and then before and behind John’s testicles, stroking, petting, breathing in musk and soap and sweat.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John says, sucking in air through is teeth. “You’ve done this before.”

And then Sherlock meets his eye, smile on his lips as he licks a wet stripe up John’s entire length. “A very long time ago,” Sherlock says, nuzzling at the spot where John’s testicles meet his shaft, kissing there, trailing his nose up to the tip. He wraps his lips around the head, swirls his tongue, pulls off, kisses. “Not since before I knew you, John.” He hopes John understands; he wants this with exactly _no one_ else.

John groans, loud, fists gripping tightly the sheets beside him. “I fucking _love_ you,” he says.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says ( _you have no idea_ , he thinks), looking up, flaying himself open, letting it all show. He takes one of John’s hands and places it on his own cheek, holds it there quietly, thumb stroking against John’s for a moment. “I fucking love you, too,” and then he takes him as deeply as he can, makes it wet, sucks and bobs and uses his tongue, one hand to make up the difference, the other to tease and press. He gluts himself on it, smiling around his mouthful at the grunts and _oh’s_ spilling from John’s lips, the soft tugs as John’s fingers open and close in his hair. 

“Sherlock,” John moans. His fingers tighten, pulling just a bit. “Sherlock, stop. I’m going to come.” His fingers stroke Sherlock’s crown, down his cheek, and Sherlock pulls off but stays close. 

“Do you want to,” Sherlock asks, “this way?”

John shakes his head against the pillow and drags Sherlock’s face to his. “No,” he says, breath coming in pants. “Together, Sherlock,” he says, and he rolls, flipping them, kissing everywhere he can, straddling Sherlock’s hips and pulling at Sherlock’s waistband. They shuffle his pyjama bottoms down together, and John moves back to get them completely off. 

When John returns up his body, it is by running his cheek, his lips, his chin, from Sherlock’s testicles all the way up to his jaw, taking his time along the way to nuzzle lightly against his length, lips placing a soft kiss against his frenulum before following his midline to dip into and nibble around his navel, and up and up just like that, lips and tongue everywhere, all the way up his chest until Sherlock is whimpering and John’s penis is sliding against his own. 

John settles astride him, hands trailing lightning up and down the back of Sherlock’s thighs, rocking himself against Sherlock’s length, and they moan together. John rocks again, leaning down to suck marks on Sherlock’s neck, breath hot on Sherlock’s ear as he sucks a lobe. He shifts to rub his hand along Sherlock’s penis, fingers light as they brush him silly; Sherlock’s very nail beds vibrate with it. “Do you have lube?” 

Sherlock flings a hand out wildly to his night table, nearly yanking the drawer completely out in his haste, but his fingers find it in fairly short order. John squeezes some into his hand and slowly spreads slick over Sherlock’s flesh in soft slides and tender circles, gathering a bead of dripping precome and licking it from his thumb, tongue darting out to lick his lips as his smile goes wicked. He coats himself as well, and then he presses them together. 

It is so good. They breathe with open mouths, lips touching, tongues dipping, flicking. They lace their hands together between them, creating a just-right space, and then, they move, thrust, slide—together. Sherlock’s legs wrap tightly around John’s waist, toes curling, heels pressing them close as they move, thrust, slide and move, thrust, slide, better and better and better, and there, yes _there_ , right, _there_ , yes, and _yes_ , over and over and—

“John!” Sherlock shouts out in a whisper, trying to stay quiet, but “John! _John_ , I’m”

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock,” he says, a bone-deep murmur that flows like magma all the way down Sherlock’s spine, lighting fire where it pools just below his belly; his testicles tighten. John’s forehead presses against his shoulder, breath wet and panting against his ear. “Come with me,” he rumbles, he breathes, he grunts. “Sh— fucking— love— you. _Sherlock_ ,” and John is spilling, his release adding to the slide of their flesh, and it’s warm and wet and then Sherlock’s vision sparks. His back arches and arches and _arches_ up toward John as he comes and comes and _comes_.

John collapses on top of him, lips sliding wetly, sloppily, from his collarbone to his chin before he takes Sherlock’s mouth again. Sherlock kisses him, the smacking of their lips louder now that their breathing has evened out some, their pulses quieting. 

“I do love you, John,” Sherlock murmurs against his temple. 

“You have no idea,” John replies, lifting back to look him fully in the face. He settles just to the side so it’s easier for him to reach out and trace Sherlock’s brow with his fingers, then down the slope of his nose, over his cupid’s bow. Sherlock kisses him there, on the pads of his fingers, chaste, soft. “How _much_ I love you.” 

“Funny, I had that exact thought earlier,” Sherlock says, mouth quirking up, reaching to sweep thumbs along each of John’s cheeks, the curved ridge of bone under his eyes. “John Watson cannot possibly fathom how long and how much I have loved him.”

John smiles, little huff of breath from his nose. “I might just, though.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and this expression is unmistakable—it’s joy. Sherlock _knows_.

“It’s the best thing I know how to do,” Sherlock whispers, pressing his nose against John’s cheek. “Love you.”

John kisses him, wrapping his leg around Sherlock’s and pressing even closer. They are both tacky with sweat and semen and saliva from their toes to their knees to their bellies. They will need to clean up soon, but not just yet. Not yet. Sherlock settles his head in the crook of John’s neck and shoulder, nuzzles in, and hums. 

The curtains at the window billow inward with a sudden gust, and in the distance—thunder.

\--End--


End file.
